


Mama's Boy

by Venn



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Gen, In which Eric loves his mother and hates people who hurt her, M/M, Revenge, kenman but can be just gen if you want, maybe next time, they dont make out in pools or blood or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 05:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12125442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venn/pseuds/Venn
Summary: Don't fuck with Eric's mom. Not even once.





	Mama's Boy

The crackling of the heater kicking into effect broke the silence that otherwise hung heavy in the dank basement of the Cartman residence. There were no lights except the orange gleam slipping through a small rectangle of window to show the surface above. It was by this light that Eric worked, dragging a heavily loaded chair to the center of the room, which had otherwise been cleared of boxes and any necessary memories. He rubbed his toe over the circular drain he’d settled the chair over, apparently pleased with its abilities and location.

“You don’t need to fucking tell me twice, I know about the goddamn drain,” He muttered to himself. A beat of silence. “Well, yeah it works. It has so far. No-- No, no, no, fuck off! It’ll be fuckin’ fine. If not I’ll just hire some fucking Mexicans to do it. They can’t speak fucking English, anyway--”

Cartman paused, squinting as the chair creaked, burden shifting in its trappings of rope and plastic ties.

“Oh, you’re awake,” He mused, settling to the one visible window and hefting a box to fit perfectly into the slot, extinguishing any light they could have naturally. Reaching up, Cartman took a moment to locate the thin string before pulling. A lightbulb flickered into existence above them, yellow light obscured by a brown rust caused by years of dust and grime build up.

The light cast a sharp relief on the real scene he’d staged. A thick wooden chair standing alone atop a grated drain, a burlap-coated figure-- Plainly a man-- secured at the chest, ankles, wrists, and neck with a knotted, fraying rope and reinforced with plastic zip ties.

A small pocket knife was all Cartman needed to slice the rope holding the burlap bag onto his head. Tugging it off, he tilted his head, eyeing the man he revealed and tossing the bag aside. “Hello, _Colton_.” He mused, flipping the blade closed.

The man-- Colton-- choked at the sudden freedom from musty air and muted arguments he’d been hearing for the past hour. “Kid?” He asked groggily. “What-- Where am I? Who’re you talking to? This some thing for Liane?”

Funny. Still thought this wasn’t a scary situation. But no, he wouldn’t. The past few hadn’t either. Cartman loved his mother but she had a very specific _type_ , and they were all douchebags. “No, Colton, this isn’t for my mom. This is for me, see--”

“Alright, kid, I’m sure you’ve had this entire thing planned, but--”

“AY,” Cartman roared, hand raising and colliding with the older man’s cheek. “You don’t interrupt me,” He snarled, holding a finger in front of Colton’s face. “Strike one, fuckweed.”

There was a moment of silence where Cartman seemed to be collecting himself. “As I was saying!” The words burst from his lips as if they had built up for years. “ _Colton_. This is for me. Because I wanted to like you, I really did, but--”

A sudden yanking at the ropes had Cartman startled again, the worn rope creaking in use just as much as the chair squeaked at its hinges. If that hadn’t torn him from his speech, Colton fucking would have. Again. “I’m gonna forgive that slap, alright, kiddo? I’m gonna forgive it ‘cause I’m a nice guy. But you keeping me tied here is gonna make me do something I don’t like, alright? So let me go, and we’ll keep this talk going, how’s that sound?” He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t shaken in the least.

It really was a shame. Cartman could see a lot of himself in Colton. Except for the faggity name, but he could have changed it.

Oh, and also he was a fucking scumbag.

“Well, gee, Colton,” Cartman said, voice high and innocent. “It sounds like you don’t understand SIMPLE,” Cartman slapped him across the face again, “FUCKING,” Another slap, this time with the back of his hand, “INSTRUCTIONS.” A third hit to emphasize his point, and both hands came down hard on the arms of the chair. Cartman leaned into the man’s space, nails dragging into the wood there. “You talk again, I cut off a finger, dude. Simple as that. I don’t like wasting time, man.”

And that apparently hit him right in the giggle dick, because of all the things to laugh at, Colton chose to laugh at _that_. “Eric, kiddo, we both know--”

Snapping open the knife, Cartman felt the crunch of metal through bone before he even really heard it. He was getting good at removing fingers, honestly. Colton’s words had died on his tongue, and he proceeded to scream, eyes wide and staring in horror at the stump where his pointer finger had been, sluggish red blood seeping into the wood and racing in thick rivulets down the chair leg.

“Oh my god, I fucking warned you-- Shut the fuck up!” Cartman snarled over the yelling, grabbing the burlap sack from the side and shoving it into Colton’s mouth, muffling the screams. He wasn’t afraid of the noise-- His mom was out, was supposed to be for a few days. It was just him and his guest.

“Shut up,” Cartman snapped, looking over his shoulder. “It’s fucking fine, I got the fucking bag, it’s fucking fine.” He wasn’t talking to Colton now, his eyes focused somewhere behind him, and Colton watched him turn on his heel and scowl, bloodied knife dripping and flicking as he gestured wildly, arguing heatedly with… nothing.

Finally, Cartman came to a still, another deep breath filling him to the bones before turning back to the task at hand.

“So I wanted to like you, Colton,” he continued, picking up the conversation from where they’d left off. “I see a lot of me in you, y’know. You’re a smart businessman. You like making money and you’re good at it. You don’t give a fuck about goddamn shitty fucking pussies screaming about PC or gluten. You’re white. I mean, you really hit all my checklists for a good guy,” Cartman encouraged, dragging the flat side of the blade against Colton’s cheek. He might have cut him with the sharp edge, but whatever. Not important.

Eric sighed, placing the tip of the knife on his nose, as if he was thinking. He sighed deeply, arms crossed over his chest. “I _really_ wanted to like you,” he said quietly, as if he was really, truly disappointed. “But then you had to go fuck it up, Colton.”

Said man made a grunt of concern, as if actually _still_ trying to fucking talk!

The blade fell like a guillotine on another finger, the middle one this time. “You had to fuck it up!” He threw the second finger to join the first as the screaming resumed. “I’m a patient guy, Colton!” Another grating slice and a third finger was severed. “You can keep screaming like a little bitch and lose your toes or you can shut the fuck up and let me talk.”

The third finger either made Colton’s hand stop hurting completely, or he got the fucking picture, because he was drawn to silence.

“See, my mom is the best. And I’m obviously biased, but considering this town fucking sucks _chunks_ , my mom is the best thing about it. And I liked you Colton but you made her cry,” Cartman stood tall over the man, looming high over him. “You made her _cry_ , man,” He took a large breath, air shaky, as if he was trying his damnedest to _not_ remember. Cartman laughed, but it was a dry sound, forced and strained, like it was taking actual strength to manage it. “I don’t like that Colton, my man.”

When Cartman exhaled, it was like he’d run a marathon, tone wavering as he tried to take another calming breath. His hand was shaking as he brought it to rub over his face, a desperate attempt to calm himself down.

It didn’t work.

“I DON’T,” Cartman’s hand, tight around the newly-closed knife, clenched into a fist and rose, colliding with the man’s jaw, “FUCKING,” Another punch, this one aimed at the perfectly high curve of his cheekbone. “LIKE THAT.” The third punch was aimed high-- He seemed to be trying to squeeze the eye out of Colton’s face like a grape between two fingers.

Cartman perched on the arms of the chair again, panting as he felt the throb in his knuckles from the punching. He felt blood trickle down his fingers from the man’s face and flicked it away, the wet patter of blood hitting concrete flooring joining the chorus of the radiator still groaning in the corner.

Another breath had Cartman shakily leaning his forehead on Colton’s, eyes closing as he exhaled into his face. “So this is for me,” he started again, cheerfully pulling away, hearing the wet gasp of Colton trying to breathe through the blood dripping into his nose via the cut Cartman had opened on his eyebrow.

“Let’s see if we can get you to see yourself crying, huh?” His tone was much brighter, borderline cheerful. “Nothing like a little role reversal to get the blood going.”

It was three in the morning when Kenny found himself outside the Cartman residence. An insomniac stroll had turned into a pointed mission to find Cartman. If he got properly baked and fed he could probably get to bed in time to wake up and slip into his house before his parents noticed. And Cartman was always down for a good time, so where was the harm?

Except when Kenny arrived to the Cartman residence, there was no familiar glow from the living room or from Cartman’s room. His calls and texts were met with silence, as was his attempt to Romeo and Juliet his way into Cartman’s room-- Namely, throwing rocks at the window. Now, granted, it _was_ three in the morning, so there was a _chance_ he was just… asleep, like normal people were. But if Kenny knew Cartman, that was unlikely.

That was when he saw it. The bright yellow glow silhouetted against a black _something_ blocking the window to the basement. Weird, since the basement had been used for storage since Cartman got tired of people getting to use his basement for bases without him. But maybe he brought back the man cave. Gay, but alright.

Sneaking to the door, Kenny thought he’d surprise Cartman, trying the door and finding it unlocked. Nice. He was going to scare him shitless. Slipping inside, he began to make his way to the basement, winding through the house carefully to avoid the creaky floorboards and knocking anything down that might have been valuable. There was talking coming from downstairs, making Kenny raise an eyebrow-- Had Cartman gotten another TV without inviting him over? Fucking rude.

“...See, the problem with people like Dexter or Dahmer is that they take _trophies_ , see? I don’t need anything like that because I’m not some fucking weirdo that has to jizz all over blood or skin or whatever the fuck,” Cartman was telling Colton.

Colton was pretty obviously dead-- Burlap sack ripped open from chest to stomach, one eye hanging to the socket by a thread and a large rope of intestines wrapped like a fashionably long scarf around his neck.

Cartman was hosing down the ground and the chair. “And I know what you’re thinking, though-- ‘You’re still psycho! Anyone could pin this on you! You’re the only person it could be, trophies or not!’ Heh, I know. And usually you’d be right, Colton. Usually I’d go through this whole thing where I’d convince you to kill yourself, or convince that pretty schizoid neighbor of yours that you were the reason she was hearing voices and she had to stop you-- I would!” Eric smiled, shaking his head as if he was tired of his own goofy antics.

“But you hit my mom, you know? You made her _cry_ . That… whew… that deserves special treatment,” Cartman stood back, surveying his work, watching the blood race into the drain. He looked thoughtful. “Well, not special. You’re hardly my first, _Col-ton_ ,” Cartman spat, shaking his head, offended by Colton’s implication of… Something.

Hard to tell what a dead body was implying.

Still, Cartman pushed on, even as Kenny made his way downstairs and stopped at the top stair, able to see into the horrors of that basement. The stairs didn’t creak, but it would seem he didn’t need them to announce his arrival.

_“Kenny’s here,”_ growled a low voice in his ear, and Cartman glanced over in the back corner, where Mitch Connors hovered, stoic as always, arms crossed, cigarette hanging lazily out of his mouth.

Cartman swallowed, “I noticed, thanks, _Mitch_ ,” he snapped, paused, glancing up at Kenny only after turning down the power on his hose.

“He hit your mom?” Kenny drawled from his spot at the top of the stairs, tone unreadable.

“She’s staying with her sister until she gets better,” Cartman answered bluntly. There wasn’t enough in him to even be sort of ashamed.

A long silence followed Cartman’s words. He wasn’t sure if Kenny was thinking, panicking, or too scared to talk, period. While he wasn’t an idiot to where all of Liane’s ex-boyfriends had gone to some capacity, this was the first time he was seeing it live. They were different worlds.

“....Shoulda made him eat the eye,” Kenny advised finally, shifting a bit on the stair. Another beat of silence, then, “You good?”

It was hard for Cartman to believe how lucky he was in that moment, how entirely _blessed_ he had to be to have someone like Kenny in his life. “Will be in a bit.”

“Need help?”

“No, no, I got it.”

“‘Kay. I’m gonna make a pizza and hit some, that cool?”

“Make two, man, I’m fucking starving.”

Kenny’s grunt and subsequent exit back up and into the kitchen was drowned out as the hose was flicked back on and Cartman continued speaking.

“So where was I? Oh, right-- So the benefits of burning your bodies, y’know, should really be more widely known….”

That night, they ate four pizzas total and watched the entire set of Bourne movies. It was a great time, honestly.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading! First fic in the fandom, whaddup. I just feel really strongly about Eric feeling very strongly about his mother and her safety so like..... Merry Christmas. (It's September)


End file.
